


Thick Brown Cuffs

by framedhim



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cock Rings, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 21:17:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framedhim/pseuds/framedhim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pairing:  Sam/Dean<br/>Rating:  NC-17<br/>Warnings:  Spoilers for Season 8<br/>Disclaimer:  All characters belong to the CW, Kripke, and crew.  I own nothing.</p><p>Summary:    The case goes something like this:  There's a call, a ghost, and Dean's screwed.  Somehow, he's okay with that</p><p> </p><p>This was written for the prompt, "ring shopping," at the porn prompt challenge community:  salt_burn_porn.   Originally prompted by tfw_tfw.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thick Brown Cuffs

+

“Please—oh fuck, please. Take it off, man. Just, do something.”

“Shut up, just—shut up,” and Dean thinks no, thinks it’s a smart idea as otherwise, otherwise he’ll have to open his crushed lips. He’ll have to slot them open against the brick wall of the shop, his body pressed in too tight, and that’s a piece of gum by his eye and a dubious splotch of crust down by his lips, so yeah, he’ll gladly keep his mouth closed. It doesn’t mean he can’t whine out his embarrassment, need warring with his goddamn common sense.

He can buck back in order to free himself, slot his wrists that are wrenched behind his back, shove his shoulder up hard into the chin resting there. He can struggle, get away from the gritty textured wall he’s being ground against, his cock taking the brunt of the punishment. His bound cock, tight leather cuff cinched firm so that each shove forward, each, “Shut up, Dean. Shut-up…,” lends a rash against the swollen glans.

He manages the slight pain of it, grates his mouth against the salty red brick, the pink bow of his upper lip catching, splitting. The paper-thin slice of it stinging and the click of his tongue cotton-ball sluggish. “Shh, it’s okay, Sammy. It’s okay.” The long sigh of it is better to his ears than the warble of police sirens off in the distance, more reassuring to each of them than the lapping sound of the water behind them, “Did it for me too, man. Quiet now.”

It’s all the confirmation he can muster as he’s yanked, drug backwards to the sound of Sam’s pained cry, his hips engulfed in huge mitts. His lower body is moved half a space away from the building so that his ass tilts up just so and his blood thick dick slips free, flopping forward. 

+

The case goes like this:

Deidre Cuevas’s ghost is a fucking asshole.

That simple; case closed. 

Dean’s not sure if he wants to loop hands around her vertebra and choke her remains or salt and burn ‘em. Sam’s not sure if he wants to listen to his brother carry on about torturous good-for-nothings when one, Dean was singing the then living woman’s praises three weeks ago, and two, he can’t concentrate on caring when his entire face is scratched all to hell. There are tiny claw marks on his nose of all places, covered in a fine sheen of sweat and worm infested graveyard dirt.

It’s all he can do to pull himself up out of the grave, arms a quivering mess of muscle and his lower back aching like he’s done nothing but bend over and shovel all day. He has; he’s been shoveling all night and the last thing he wants to hear—once his ass is firmly planted six feet up, top graveside—is the whistle of breath hissing through Dean’s teeth as he bares them towards the former shopkeeper’s skeleton. 

He makes a concession: the last thing he truly wants to hear is the whistle of air through Deidre’s ribcage; the smudged bones give off ugly tonal notes that prickle his nerves, and the air is too damn suffocating in this urban Mississippi town not to suffer under the weighted sounds. How any of the molasses thick air does any kind of gusting down in the grave is beyond him. That is until Sam begins to get a clue and Dean’s two steps ahead of him, shouting over the breeze—it’s a breeze, baby, playing through your fingers like powdered chalk—and Sam’s at the ready with the rifle. 

Deidre Cuevas was a friendly, sweet woman, but her ghost is a bitch, and she goes down screaming: tiny, clawed nails fighting and wounding ‘til the bitter end. 

\+ 

Dean’s ass is dry. Sam’s not prepped him in the slightest, and that’s a hell of a lot of concerning to his welfare considering the tip of Sam is nudging, insistent, at his hole.

“Sam, think through it, man. What’s smaller than what your packin’ and doesn’t slick up like a girl.” He wonders if Sam hears him, the press press press of bulk against his entrance not in the least forgiving. He’s not stretched, not ever done this, and there’s already enough pain in their lives to forgo the last shred of space between them end in a ripping, tearing creation.

The chuff in his ear quells the fear, and Sam says—resting and sliding and gliding down towards Dean’s sac with strings of precum to slick the way—he says, “Not an option, Dean. Not going to hurt you. Finding my headspace.” Dean laughs with the idea of it, of Sam constantly thinking things through. Sam’s probably researched the how’s and the what’s until there’s nothing left to do but get his hands dirty. _Curious bastard, scholarly punk_ , no heat in the thoughts but the blush they send to his chest. He slumps his head towards the supporting wall and watches the tip of his brother’s dick press forward, bump against thick leather, the cause of this...this. He watches the fresh pink of Sam: flesh stretched thin and tight, startling to see it pressed in against his angry red length. His toes clench in his boots, and he's uncertain and not backing down. The brown cuff between them, glint of metal to the tiny d-rings the leather loops through, lends to the certainty of what they’re doing; it's evident in the wet stain Sammy leaves along the material. 

Dean’s so close, dick harder than he’s been in ages, so the increased cinch of the cuff surprises him. He grunts as another surge of blood to his cock tightens the band, leaving him nervous at the hue that’s near purpling, and he struggles, determined not to finish before they’ve even started. 

+

The case starts something like this:

Deidre Cuevas is a friend of Garth’s second cousin twice removed. Garth called them, said leave it be, leave the trials for a few weeks and get this done. “Wouldn’t have called you,” he says, chewing obvious across the line, “it’s just, I don’t trust the two hunters from over in Witchita.” He’d laughed then abruptly stopped, choking on his food when Dean had told him in no kind words he didn’t give a flying fig because Sam was exhausted and hurting and who the hell trusts a hunter anyways. “Not gonna happen, Dean. I need those compadres at the factory, not in what Cuevas’s dad has stashed in Gulfport. Now I’m asking real nice, and I got a real sweet deal in the works for you and Sam if the job doesn’t go south.”

“No,” the strength of it loud enough that it’d pulled Sam from upstairs.

Sam rounded the table, plunking down two coins in the center, and Dean watched them spin and spin and topple as Garth’s voice cut through, “C’mon, Dean. Real sweet deal—hunter up in Montreal says he’s cartin’ around a vintage case of vino and a demon that’s been topside too long without protection. Demon who’s been spilling secrets on Crowley’s whereabouts these days. Hunter says he’ll hand it over, free and clear, if it means he gets R&R. I’m asking, Dean, ‘cause I don’t want this case flubbed.”

His boots hit the ground as he kicks off the ottoman, head and shoulders hound dog low as he gets ready to answer with a swear and a negative Ghost Rider. It’s the face he sees, the twitch of pent-up energy in the slap of Sam’s hands as he rubs them together. It’s the touch of heated palms to his bicep as Sam passes him by saying, “Take it.” 

It’s his fault, his own damn fault that he caves, answering Garth. “Send the details.” 

His own fault that he’s hardwired to that touch, and it’s getting to him, messing with his head. Sam’s presence and absence goading his flayed nerves, Sam’s ass screwing up Dean’s tightly made bed with the hospital corners as he sits there, sorting through leaflets, leaving Dean fed up. Sam has his own room but Dean catches him sitting there in his—like Sam has every right, like he’s the epitome of every little brother, this massive and immovable object that Dean wants to keep in that spot and drink the sight of him in until he’s sick with it, and isn’t that the most fucked up thing ever—so he fists his hands down the doorframe. “The hell, man? Don’t you have books to pour over, potions to concoct. Your own damn territory. Get out.” 

Sam’s everywhere these days. His hands are everywhere, touching and patting the bed even as he narrows his eyes, face putout. Sam’s face as he stands to stretch, fingertips skirting the ceiling. Sam’s hips brushing past, boxer briefs to jean clad hips. Sam’s stupid paws grip the back of Dean’s neck, fingers tracing in the hair growth and pushing him forward, bratty as always. He rounds the corner to leave. Sam’s lips pursed, hard-lined face now and in Dean’s dreams when Dean’s gone on his own hunts, and Sam, Sam, Sammy. 

The entirety of the Men of Letter’s cave is massive, and yet, they keep on in each other’s space. It messes with Dean’s head. Sweaty socks that Sam leaves on the floor of the bathroom for Dean to pick up, and then there's Dean’s robe, his robe for fuck’s sake, on the kitchen counter—strawberry jam for Sam’s toast staining the cuff, all of it spinning him up. Havoc over the slight normalcy playing on his system. Sam’s so damn calm in it, the normalcy that evens out his temperament, makes him loose with his affections. 

Sam is everywhere at once, even when he’s right there, sitting stock still and engrossed in the tome of the day. Dean has to get them out, get them somewhere smaller, more confined, in order to separate them before he goes insane. 

Dean’s too far gone. Months have gone by, waiting on the next trial to present itself, time for the touches and the loneliness of a bedroom two inches too far from his brother to take their toll. 

+

Thick leather cuff. The first touch of it, Sam’s finger toying with the metal rings, sends a jolt up the back of his thighs. It buckles Dean’s knees; bowlegs kicked apart a small distance as his jeans get in the way, yanked down only a few inches below his asscheeks in haste.

Thick brown leather that holds his scent, keeps him erect, wraps around the base of his cock and balls. Held tight and cinched, well-worn. He’s only ever worn it, obsessed by the natural scent of leather and the play of it in his brother’s hands that first time.

Thick brown leather cuff with its shiny metal clasps that looked delicate and innocent in the light blue satin fabric of the gift box. Startling cuff that reminds him…

“It’s the jacket, hmm? Stupid, gorgeous jacket don’t you think, Dean?” Sam’s fingernail scritching along the wrapped ring, lifting one of the buckles as his thumb skates wiry hair along Dean's balls. Sam speaks into the goose-pimpled flesh of Dean’s neck, “Miss it so much, miss the sweat, and gun oil scent. That what all this is about? Did you not think I’d figure it out? That little faith in me, big brother?”

Sam’s right about one thing: Dean does miss it, wants that something to be put right and slotted back in its place. He’s completely wrong about Dean’s faith in him. It’s that exact faith that’s kept him hopeful and hard as a rock these past few weeks. He just about nods, all that he can manage because his brain won’t kick his mouth in gear, just about hears the splash of a fin somewhere in the brackish bayou water they’re right next to. Instead, he jumps, forehead abraded against the building’s façade when Sam plucks. His long fingers popping Dean's dick at the base of the cock ring.

Dean can feel his orgasm starting at the base of his spine, legs tensing with the wash of pleasure as the wave of it creeps up and up. Sam plucks again, the strength of the pop bouncing Dean’s fat cock off his groin and back down. The sound of spitting and the feel of Sam’s fingers wrapping around his glans is muffled beneath the onslaught of coming. The tip of a finger slots into his slit, and Dean arches, ass bumping against denim and the small, exposed patch of Sam’s skin through the slit in his boxers.

Sam didn’t bother to drop trough, and Dean knows the rough sensation of cotton material is due to Sam merely sticking his dick through the boxer's hole. The idea cramps him, orgasm rushing forward, and he can’t move with the force of it. Somewhere in his mind, he recognizes the release of pressure of all that trapped blood. He nearly keels forward, grits his teeth in pain as Sam loosens the edges of the leather band and slips it off. Dean can’t think for the rushing of everything in and out and around, and the pain hits him right as his orgasm does, leaving him spasming in the grip of Sam’s fist. Shooting his brain out through his dick and into Sam’s waiting palm.

+

The case winds up something like this:

Deidre Cuevas is a full bodied woman, curves so thick and full Dean can’t help but want to snuggle in and grab. If Sam’s looks are anything to go by, quick peeks through lowered lashes as he scribbles into a small field notebook, Sam’s feeling the same way. The woman’s attitude doesn’t make things easier on either of their libido’s: she's soft in speech and as warm and open as any mom Dean’s ever seen, and Dean’s not going to look too hard into that train of thought because, no, and he’s already got a Sam fixation to curb.

Turns out, though, if he’s looking to rid himself of kinks via experience, he and Sam hit the jackpot. Deidre rounds the corner of the register towards her little store’s backroom, motioning them to follow. They round the glass-topped checkout cabinet with its contents on display. There’s a neon orange sale sign on a fishbowl full of clit stimulators. Sam plays cool as cucumber, but he’s not; Dean notices the twitch in his jaw once Dean jabs him with his elbow, head nodding to another fishbowl brimming with flavored lube tubes. Deidre gives a laugh and cocks a studded eyebrow, looking between the two of them. 

She continues on, leaving the insinuation open-ended to Sam’s indignant expression, and leads them into the storeroom. She’s mid-conversation about her ex-boyfriend’s ghost beating the ever living snot out of her Sharpei when she, and Dean, notice Sam shrinking away from the rows of open boxes ready for stocking. “See anything you like?” It takes a second, but Sam, god love him, mumbles out a no thank you. It takes less time for Dean to blank them both out.

Dean stares and fixates, trying to stay involved in the chatter between Sam and Deidre, but it’s right _there_. 

“Sure, okay, but let’s go out into the main room…that’s where Aaron shot himself, you know? You said you can fix this, yeah?” Dean hears the sounds, attempts to focus on metal shelving and Deidre’s slightly frizzed curl of hair brought about by the Mississippi summer weather. He tries to listen in and follows obligingly behind Sam when Sam shoulder bumps him, his black suit jacket reeking of sweat and Sam, Sam, Sammy. It’s delicious, and Dean can’t think, can’t stop glancing back at it as they head out into the main area.

The shop is closed, dry-erase board stating so in the window of the store. Five feet off the front sidewalk is a dirt parking lot, and to the side of the building is one of hundreds of bayou in the area. The store smells clean, bleach in the air, and it’s a shock to the senses when Deidre opens a window and in flows the mossy scent of the land. Dean needs to sneeze, makes to find a tissue, and finds Sam standing still, turning a small object over and over in his hands. 

The object is wrapped in plastic, the crinkle of it loud in the room, and Sam’s eyes are so incredibly focused that Dean can’t help but move in closer. To make fun or to turn himself on he’s not sure because fuck is it hot in the shop now, and Sam’s hands palm the toy like he’s worshiping the damn thing.

It’s leather whereas the others along the wall are rubber and a few metal. Brown, thick, with a natural worn look, and Dean is willing to bet, wants to know, that it smells just so. It’s a color he knows, a look to the material that will feel perfect under his hand. He bets the slipslide of it wet from sweat and cinched around the base of his cock, the cuff of it closing through two metal loops—no snaps or buckles—would make him praise all that’s good in the universe. 

When they head out, Sam never sees the box. Small, mahogany wood with a blue, satin liner holding the closest thing to memories of home and dad and gun oil that Dean’s willing to touch on. 

The second week out finds them with two ghosts at their backs as Deidre’s been killed by Aaron; her body's picked apart to the bone by crows and bayou creatures. The first week in, she’d cooperated, sent them on their way to her ex’s bayou grave. Dean and Sam had dug and salt and burned all while Dean bulged in the front of his jeans, dick thick and front and center whenever Sam’s touch was too much. Whenever they sat side by side in the Impala and Sam was in his space, he'd needed the feel of the leather; Sam being far too observant and eyeing Dean’s sudden burgeoning interest. 

The second week out, Sam was more vocal. “Really, man. You should do something about that,” all while sidling closer than necessary on the car bench seat. Hand on Dean’s waist for a brief moment, and how could Dean not fasten on the cuff the next day, make the pain pinch and the rush of release sweeter.

The third week out, Sam had all but reached in Dean’s pants, suddenly concerned with Dean’s well-being. Deidre and Aaron not resting, Deidre angry and spittle-flying, rage and claws out at her unfortunate demise, and the case has gone on too damn long.

“Don’t suppose we need to get you to the doctor,” and Dean chokes on his own spit as he bumps into the motel’s sink as he spots what’s in Sam’s hand. Sam on Dean’s bed, fondling the tiny wooden box with it’s pretty satin inlay and having no idea that its gift is wrapped snuggly around the root of his big brother. The image floods Dean with heat, and he swears he sees a smirk when he yelps at another bump into the sink, rushing to the bathroom to jerk off hard and fast.

Doesn’t see the blink of surprise at the confirmation, Sam’s hand wobbling as he sets down the box. Dean doesn’t see the unconscious breath in, scenting for what his little brother knows smells like home and dad and memories of the two of them, forever. Brown, thick leather.

They dig and shoot and end up with a failed case in their eyes, but the ghosts are gone. Sam sits top graveside, eyes glued to Dean’s crotch as Dean stretches out his body. Dean’s arms to the sky and sliver of stomach showing, and Sam huffs as he knows Dean thinks he’s been so fucking sneaky, but the hard line of him isn’t a guess anymore. All this time and Sam’s been waiting, touching, dropping hints that they’re more now. He couldn't do this with the way they were, but the trials are ramming down his throat and there's blood in his mouth. He doesn’t give it a second thought, not with the bulge of his brother there and in his space, and Dean, Dean, Dean.

+

The grave dirt smells and the bayou reeks. Sam is palming Dean’s asscheeks, thick thumb of his left hand circling Dean’s rim that’s winking post orgasm while the other—Dean has no clue where the other is. He’s amazed he has any brain function left and is more than comforted in knowing his senses are back online. It’s on that thought that his taste buds spark with a familiar tang. 

The cock ring cuff is wet, moistened with more than jizz and sweat. He opens his mouth to the heft of it, slight taste of copper from the earlier cut to his lip greeting him as he licks out at it and the bitter taste. Sam shoves the cuff further between Dean’s teeth, the tiny smear of gun oil slight but enough for Dean to count to twenty, squeezing his eyes shut at the overwhelming rush of sensation. 

“Moaning like a whore, Dean. All mine. Figured you’d like the taste of it as much as I like the smell.” Sam licks along Dean’s lips, along the closed seam and leather hanging out the sides. He kisses, tiny and soft against Dean’s cheek, rubbing and panting until Dean feels a moistened finger slip inside his hole. The pain of it sends him clamping down on the cuff like a lifeline. Loosening, spreading, three fingers full of gun oil and his own release easing him open after seconds and minutes and more, all with Sam vibrating against his back. Sam holding back, hung head resting on the nape of Dean’s neck. 

Dean grunts, unwilling to release the cuff and give his permission, and hopes to god that Sam understands what his raised ass and bent knees signal. Sam, smart guy that he is, he doesn’t miss a thing and forces in, in, in. Thick length of him, all that pretty pink silk slamming into Dean, shoving Dean’s braced fists all along Deidre’s shop wall. Sam moves and pats and pets him everywhere, fills Dean part way, pulls out, and all over again. It’s so fucking good, and when Sam comes, Dean jerks at the heat filling him. 

Dean comes dry, an unexpected second orgasm white-washing him and near gagging him on the cuff between his teeth. Sam stays inside, soothes him with words, and when that’s not enough, removes the leather cock ring and makes it right with dry kisses. Sam’s release dribbles sloppily out his ass, and Sam’s scent is everywhere. Dean knocks his head back as he raises, wincing at the squelch of his brother pulling out, and grabs Sam’s jaw in one hand as he half turns. 

“The case sucked, man.” At Sam’s bark of laughter, Dean squeezes hard on his brothers dimples in warning, loving the instant flush across Sam’s cheeks as he whispers an order against thin lips, “Get the lock from under the mat; we’re going shopping, Sammy.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, as always, for reading. Thank you in advance for kudos.  
> Peace,  
> framed


End file.
